Unspoken
by jessspider
Summary: Non-Canon, possibly alternate universe. Molly has worked with Sherlock now for three years. John and Sherlock trying to find buried treasure. Exploring the unexplored between Molly/Sherlock.My humble addition to the band-wagon.Angst, drama,humor,romance.
1. The Anomaly

_**Authors notes:** Hi guys. I actually truly hate my writing at the moment because I have not written anything in nearly 3 years. It's very rusty. And to start with a Sherlock/Molly fic, is not the way to go. Especially, as I feel it is the hardest type of fanfic to write at the moment. I have seen all of you out there writing and to be even remotely as ingenious or as excellent as you all are, with your writing, would be a dream. I know my characterisations are probably highly likely off._

_This is a non-canon (for the moment at least), possible alternate-universe, piece, I started writing a few days ago. Plot is still as yet unclear for me, but I think I wanted to explore Sherlock and Molly a little bit._

_Its difficult to place a genre – it is an angsty, romantic –ish, subtle humour, some drama, a lot of point of view scenes if you will from each character._

_**Disclaimer**: I own none of the characters, and I wish, that Sherlock and Molly were a reality._

_Without further adue – I hope that you enjoy. I apologise, for jumping on the bandwagon – I think I caught the one with the wheel falling off it – so I may have a while yet, before my journey into these two is perfect or complete. Just really wanted to test the waters and to have my aching heart relieved._

_Positive criticisms welcome – any mistakes, please let me know._

* * *

><p>'Yes,' Sherlock intoned. 'Quite.'<p>

He briefly glanced at John through the mirror on display at the restaurant. Picking up his grey-bluish scarf, he secured it around his neck with the usual knot and in one sweep slid both arms into his coat, before turning up the collar.

John remarked on Sherlock momentarily. He was a good-looking man. A clueless-ly good-looking man. Truth be known, he probably actually did know that he was quite handsome, and that he could use that to his advantage when he wanted to, but, John thought to himself, so entrenched in the inner workings of Sherlock's mind was Sherlock, that he most likely relegated the significance of such things to the back of it.

'So to the mortuary?' John asked in confirmation.

'There's really no question about it.' Sherlock replied, his ice-grey eyes glanced momentarily at John before looking toward the door. 'Onwards John,' he directed, as the doctor quickly gathered his coat, before Sherlock left him to his own at the Coriander Leaf.

Walking swiftly through the door with Sherlock, John wondered about the case at hand. It was nearly over, he could feel it, but there was something about the current case to leave Sherlock ill at ease. Not that he usually was at ease, and not that it was unusual really for his consulting-detective flatmate friend not to remain restless towards the end of an investigation, but one could feel the air thick with that anticipation of something important. Whatever it was Sherlock was hoping to find on this dead body, would be the final confirming clue in the puzzle that would lead them to the location of the buried treasure. Literally.

A strange thought crossed his mind, of Sherlock being Captain of a pirate's ship and John being his second mate. He sniffed away at his randomly concocted brain imagery, and chuckled to himself.

'What?' Sherlock noticed from the corner of his eye, as he cried out, 'Taxi!' from curb. Hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the frosty wind, he turned to John, and then turned again as a black cab pulled in towards them. Opening the door, he stepped in first, John quickly after.

It was most definitely a chilly night in London and the cab was a momentary welcome relief.

'Nothing,' John replied, a slight smile still playing upon his face.

'Hmm.' Sherlock allowed it. 'St. Bartholomew's hospital please driver.'

* * *

><p>21.30<p>

St. Bartholomew's

Pathology Lab

Molly was busying herself with the slice of tissue specimen upon the glass slide, when a 'meow' alerted her to an incoming text. She knew who it was of course, as she pre-programmed texts from the man to sound out with a inconsequential 'meow'. Indeed, the choice was deliberate. Molly, one late night, so long ago, had decided that her way of dealing with her feelings for Sherlock, was to let her phone sound out with a mini little 'meow' when he texted. In her mind, it gave her some sort of reverse psychological power to deal with the dominant manner with which he handled her on most occasions.

He was nothing but a curious cat, she would tell herself. A cat that used people to get what they wanted. A cat that feigned interest, pretended affection and whose play was merely a means to an end.

Having Sherlock 'meow', on her phone, allowed her a little of a sense of control in coming to terms with the fact that he was just a needy little thing, that only meowed when he wanted something. It was in effect to remind her of why he ever spoke to her.

If Sherlock ever knew that of course, he would destroy her logic in one swing of his intellectual sword. Molly liked cats really. She liked Sherlock. She could not really kid herself. In truth, sometimes, that sound, warmed the cockles of her heart, because although it was meant as warning, that the cat was coming to play, she liked that the cat was coming to play.

It brightened up her days and nights at the morgue. Just being able to cast a glance upon his fine porcelain face. Dark locks of hair framing his beautiful bone structure. She could appreciate beauty and intelligence when she saw it. And being able to see his mind at work, of course. Of course.

Before the advent of John Watson, Molly also saw the worst of Sherloc, when his eyes were hollowed out from days of being on a case. On those days, Molly just wanted to take care of him.

_Molly, we're on our way to see you. Any chance you could have the body of Jason Earl ready? SH_

She read the message there on the screen. Molly frowned. She was in the middle of a tissue slice.

'You're not really on your way to see me,' she told the echoic room of equipment. She put her phone on the bench next to the microscope and placed the slide back onto the deck. She sighed, holding her neck and rubbing at the knot that seemed to have taken permanent residence there. She stood up from her stool and stretched more fully.

Molly flashed back to all the times that Sherlock had texted mild variants of much the same thing over the time she had known him. Nearly 3 years now. Her school girl crush, whatever it was, she cared not to name it anymore, was worsening. Not only was it worsening, it was doing that slow-over-time self-destructive thing. Molly knew that it was not good for her health.

Waiting for the days when he would come by, for the momentary glances that he gave her way, even though she knew it was nothing more than the superficial, she had learnt to berate herself, she could not help but get excited when he was around, and hate herself when he left.

The constant high and low of the emotional turmoil it set in her, was distracting. There could be weeks where he was not in contact, and then a string of days, sometimes hours where he would be in contact. And moments when he would sit at her bench, staring down the microscope, and she could be as close as a centimetre away from him hovering at his side.

Her heart was now potentially at risk of some sort of fatal arrhythmia at the constant expectation. It was not going to do, to continue to place the delicate life-supplying organ at risk in such a way.

The unfortunate thing for Molly was that she could not yet see the horizon through the field of trees. She desperately wanted out. And yet, she constantly acceded to his every wish. Because maybe she loved him, deep down. Admitting to that would be dangerous. Admitting to it, would open up a box of problems. So for now, she just took what she got from Sherlock, nothing more than his abrupt appearance and disappearance, with she hoped, his being nonethewiser of her real feelings as she tried to figure out how to try to detangle herself from the mess she clearly put herself in, working the irresistible man.

_What's that phrase they use, _she thought to herself.

'Oh yes, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?' she spoke again to the quiet lab. If the objects in that room could talk, they would tell any listener of how often Molly would ramble on to herself, consoling and trying to figure out how to 'get over it' after every Sherlock visit, text, moment, you name it, she had probably discussed it with herself and the lonely lab.

'But Sherlock doesn't even like me that way to keep me keen.' She smirked at herself. 'Christ, Molly, shut up.' She scolded herself. 'He is just…mean…because he is, isn't he?'

Picking up the phone, she texted back whilst talking out loud to remind herself of who she was and what her value was. 'I'm not keen!' she told the lab emphatically.

Molly hit the send button soon after her composition. Sadly, she realised only too late, that she had sent her exact thoughts instead of her intended reply.

_I'm not keen! – MH_

'Oh shit!' she recoiled, hands covering her mouth. 'I did not just send that, tell me I did not just send that!' she looked around room. No, there was no response as per usual from the laboratory paraphernalia. _'_Shit!'

_Meow, _the phone sounded in her hand. 'Yes, he texts fast.' Molly did not want to look at her phone. 'Stupid Freudian slip, why do I keep doing that where it concerns Sherlock? One day I'm going to make a really stupid fool of myself.'

She tried to gather her thoughts again, and steadied her hands. She read the message.

_Keen? Molly, this is not the time to loose interest. –SH_

She laughed at the screen. Molly losing interest was an interesting concept. If she could only really lose interest indeed. How can anyone lose interest in Sherlock Holmes. She knew that he was referring of course to the body and the case. She was about to hash out a reply when the phone in her hand meowed again.

That certainly freaked her out. She thought for a moment that the ringtone really was stupid and was not working at all.

_Molly, we stand to find the buried treasure with your help. I'm sure your earlier text was a mere slip. We should be with you in 5 minutes – SH_

'Argh? Sherlock Holmes!' she screamed, 'Don't presume to tell me about me!' And slapped her phone down on the counter. 'Why do I always give in, I'm going to give in now, I know it. Wait, what was that about buried treasure?'

She pondered her life again. Five minutes, now four minutes, Molly, set upon a reply she was sure Sherlock would not carry out and then went towards the mortuary to bring out the body.

* * *

><p>Sherlock for all his deducing, deduced that Molly was clearly not in the mood to have them visit her. He should not have been surprised to see a text from her saying that she was not keen, as for the longest time since he had known Molly, she always seemed keen. Keen that is, to help him on her investigations when he needed the use of the lab, or to see the cadaver collection there. At least, as far as his astute mind could surmise from his perusal of her each time they came in contact.<p>

It was a little unlike Molly however to text what she had. His calculating mind concluded that this was not one of those menstrual cycle matters. It was anomalous though in nature, given the trend she had so been setting. Every so often, Molly would be anomalous and he derailed him for 0.5 seconds before he could continue upon whatever he was doing.

For as long as Sherlock had known Molly, she was nothing if not keen. Her help to him was always invaluable, and without her, his overtime neuronal firing would have exploded in unsolved mysteries from restricted access. In short, he would have had to smoke or look for dangerous mind numbing intoxicants elsewhere.

No, Molly was always keen to help him. In fact, there were few around him who were.

He handled this text reply of hers the way only Sherlock knew how, in his way.

After two texts, he finally received one from her.

_Dinner, for the trouble – MH_

That was anomalous indeed. At this point in the text banter that often ensued when Sherlock was on his way to Barts, she would often say, 'I'll be waiting' or 'Sure, it'll be ready when you arrive.'

This text read trouble all over it. Trouble that she was creating for him, for resisting it seems, their visit. Trouble that they seem to be inflicting upon her for visiting. Trouble, for asking for dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner, he thought to himself. Molly had likely not had any dinner, or she was asking that he bring dinner or take her to dinner. Women. They rarely made complete sense to Sherlock. He needed facts. Physical parameters, indicators, measurements, dates, times, months, facial expression, context, he needed to read the pattern, before he could conclude upon a string of words.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John's staring from his peripheral vision.

'Problem, Sherlock?' John quipped.

A glazed look momentarily passed over those ice-grey eyes before refocusing back to his phone at hand.

'I believe that Molly would like dinner.'

* * *

><p>(not sure how this is going to go, but happy to let my fingers do the typing for now)<p> 


	2. The Apology

John paid the cab driver quickly and ran after disappearing figure in the swathing shape-fitting coat through St. Batholomew's rear entrance into the mortuary. John remarked to himself just how much faster Sherlock's pace seemed now that they had finally arrived. The consulting detective said nothing further after the text he had received from Molly, but John had seen the infinitesimal flicker of something in his eyes, indeed, almost as though a fly had been found in his ointment or the nectar had disappeared from the flower he was hunting.

His matter-of-fact tone in regards to Molly's apparent need for dinner, seemed almost 'too' matter-of-fact. Granted, Sherlock always seemed to put upon the poor girl at the most inhumane of hours, but it felt to John as though something more was frustrating his Captain ever since he had texted her way to inform of their imminent arrival.

Sherlock was nothing if not a mystery himself, but John suspected that Molly was finally fighting back, and that Sherlock did not know what to make of it or that perhaps some other tactic was required to maintain her favours which would not involve losing the door she held open for him, forever.

When John finally caught up with Sherlock, he could see his friend holding a snickers bar in one hand and packet of crisps in the other. Clearly a pit-stop at the vending machine had occurred since arrival.

He was unclear as to Sherlock's intentions where the chocolate snack and crisps were concerned, but John thought that if it was meant as a truce with Molly, he could not necessarily guarantee the effectiveness of such a ploy. Granted Sherlock was a genius, and there could be no doubt of his success and the results he produced, but John was weary.

Would this be one of those incredibly rare times that Sherlock would apologise and be a gentleman? Since their partnership, John was not able to recall a moment where he found Sherlock to be the apologetic sort.

'Hmph.' He thought to himself. John was doubtful. He was seriously thinking of betting with himself. How something like that could be done he didn't know, but he began to calculate odds.

_Dr Watson, should Sherlock apologise, we help Sherlock to ensure Molly is taken to dinner. Okay Dr. Watson, and if Sherlock doesn't not apologise? Well Dr. Watson, we still have no other option but to help our Captain to take Molly out to dinner. _John shook his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he momentarily sighed.

Reigning himself back to the matter at hand, he walked up to stand in support beside Sherlock who himself standing poised at the door leading to Molly and Mr. Earl.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had already observed Molly through the little window view of the door. She was noting a few things down on her clipboard as she stood in front of zip-lock bag containing Mr. Earl's remains. She was intently focused on something on her clipboard. She had her hair in disarray, her white lab coat obviously opened, pockets filled with paper and mobile phone it seemed, hung on her mildly stooped posture. She was tired, it was clear, but her mind was ever at work from the focus she seemed to be directing at her scribbling.<p>

Sherlock was mildly dismayed at himself. How would he ever be able to explain to the lay person how hard it was to switch off this over-active mind of his. How he wished at times, others were driven to even half as much as he was. He could not help the fact that when he caught the bug of interest, there was no stopping the flu of chaos that inevitably followed. He was incomplete until the case was solved. He had no intention of harming anyone in trying to achieve the results he wanted. But sometimes, he did. Sometimes, special persons like Mrs. Hudson, could be kidnapped, or Watson could be shot, and sometimes he stepped on Molly, when he didn't mean to.

Sherlock could not offer reasons to himself as to why this mattered, but she mattered. She mattered enough not to want to create a rift in their working relationship at least.

He would not admit that he liked seeing her in the lab, and sometimes would sabotage her plans just so that he had an excuse to see her under the pretence of a case. It was lonely being Sherlock, and Molly, with all her innocence of mind, was somewhat soothing for him. John was the same way. Except that he often had to lead with John.

With Molly, he just was.

Sherlock needed to do something.

He stared at John.

John nodded.

Sherlock opened the door into the mortuary. John held back a few steps to allow Sherlock to say the necessary.

* * *

><p>'Molly,' Sherlock spoke clearly.<p>

Molly jumped slightly when she heard his voice, turning towards him as he entered the room.

'Sherlock,' she breathed his name, unable to help it.

She noticed the controlled, slightly solemn look on his face. Somewhat unlike Sherlock she noted to herself.

Moments before he had entered, she had been standing there, berating herself whilst hovered over her clipboard, next to the dead body of Mr. Earl. She was annoyed at her stupid text suggestion of dinner. Her absence of mind ever since he had texted her, resulted in the folly of dinner as a suggestion for all the trouble they were causing her. She had been a little angry, and it was just her having a little text rant if anything. Molly knew Sherlock would never deliver on such a suggestion. She was at that moment in time actually quite hungry, and in need of dinner. But Molly, of course, did not actually mean dinner in that sense and was worried that her text of dinner, would be so misconstrued to mean that she wanted dinner, with him, dinner with Sherlock. In her dreams, she did, but she was sure that her second slip that evening was not intended that way. _She was, wasn't she? _

She had started scribbling frustrating circles upon the paper clipped to her clipboard. Circles grew from one small perfect circle, round and round, growing bigger until it depicted a mini tornado on the document. Fate would have it, that he entered just as she sighed, startling her when he uttered her name.

She felt almost caught out, in her private moment.

There was a long silence that passed between them. Possibly only two seconds long in reality, but lifetimes could be recalled in such moments.

Molly sensed Sherlock's perusal of her. But she also sensed a shift in him.

'Molly,' he stepped took another step forward, a mere half a metre between them now. His beautiful piercing eyes meaningfully and deeply directed towards hers. If she was not so uncertain of her own perceptions where Sherlock was concerned, she could have sworn she saw a look of genuine apology cross his features.

Her doubts were blown away, when he uttered his next words upon those perfect lips of his. Molly was trying to maintain composure. She was angry wasn't she? But his height, his presence, took away hers.

'I would like to sincerely apologise for putting upon you at this hour Molly.' He paused briefly, not one breaking eye contact, 'I promise, I will make this up to you Molly.'

Sherlock did seem genuinely sorry.

'Sher-,' she began unsuccessfully, stumbling. He didn't give her the chance to continue.

In his silky deep voice, he had her mesmerised, eyes still locked with hers.

'Molly. I know, that you are quite busy at with a multitude of other matters. I wanted you to know, that without your help, half the cases I have entertained in the last three years since you have been here, might not have come to fruition. I have no doubt, that what I shall discover this evening shall give me the answers I require and thus a successful result. Your help on this as on every occasion, is never unimportant to me. And in this case, shall not be unrewarded.'

He continued to stare at her. There was such a veracity of his focused eyes upon on her face and in his words that the room seemed almost alive with static.

If Molly could count every individual hair of hers on end in that second, she was certain it would probably never end. She had just been given goose bumps, possibly for the first time, by the one and only Sherlock Holmes who never ever apologised. It seemed as though she had just been thanked by the man too.

Her breath was as if stillness in a barren land. Caught in her throat she had no idea how to breathe again. He was still looking at her. Her lack of response it seemed prompted more words.

'Molly, I know this does not make up for it this evening, but, if in case this may help,' he spoke quietly, highly unlike Sherlock, and left her with the snacks in her hand. 'I'll unzip the bag and take over from here.'

He waited for her to respond.

A brief thought crossed Molly's mind about Sherlock's calculating mind and ability to pull a multitude of strings like a puppeteer, but the girl inside of her, discarded it quickly.

He was still waiting for her to respond before he began. Was he trying to be nice? His behaviour was so unlike him that it was starting to unnerve her.

Recovering quickly, as she did not wish to remain under this particularly melty Sherlock gaze any longer, and for not truly trusting herself at that moment either, she responded.

'Um, Sherlock, thank you for this,' she shook the snacks in her hand and then back up at him.

Walking to the body, she directed, 'Please, continue.'

She watched, as his eyes, still upon hers, continued to do so until he arrived at the cadaver. Nodding his head once, he started upon the bag.

Molly was aware of John entering into the room in the distance, walking closer towards Sherlock. Her focus however, was entirely on the object of her affections, and his crop of hair. _His hair always appeared so curly and well groomed. _She cast a distracted thought.

_Sherlock? Apologising to her?_ She supposed it paid to be angry every once in a while.

He probably deduced that she was angry. It did not seem however, to her, that it was play acting on his part. And the way he was examining Mr. Earl now, seriousness graced upon his defining features, she appreciated too that without her, he would be missing a vital clue this evening.

So whether or not she could decipher his motives, something else, deep inside, told her that he had not lied.


	3. What John was thinking

Chapter Three: What John was thinking (John POV)

* * *

><p>Several matters raced through the ex-military man's mind as he watched his captain enter the room. One of them, was that he had lost the bet with himself. Sherlock, for all his magic tricks, apologised to the lovely Molly, and she seemed almost lost by it.<p>

He had seen the solemn look on his friends face through the glass in the door, and had seen how she reacted to him. He was definitely going to have to help set these two up for dinner together. Molly deserved to be treated at least. How handy that her birthday was coming around soon.

There was something about Molly that Sherlock often seemed protective of. For all his following around of Sherlock, as second-mate of the ship he was not clueless. In fact, quite often, he too was aware of subtleties, but of a different sort to Sherlock. Whereas his mind was not trying to break open a case, it was still functioning enough to maintain interest in living, and in life.

Having been discharged from military service, it was hard not to find worth in living. It was damned near hard not to keep going. When he met Sherlock that day so long ago now, all the mundane days in London he had experienced before that seemed to wither away into distant memory. The gun he kept in the drawer next to his desk, called at him like a dangerous singing siren. He was torn between taking his own life from the deception of normal living, and using it again some how, some way, in service. Before Sherlock, he was floundering in a fog of boredom and scarred by living nightmares of tending to his injured colleagues. He had created for himself an invisible disability. One where he needed something physical to stand upon, to lean on, to take the weight of the daily burden of having survived, and he force all his pain on one uninjured leg. He did feel that pain. He did need the support of that stick. Sherlock destroyed all of that within 48 hours of meeting him.

What Sherlock did for him, he could not thank enough, but Sherlock never pointed it out and never took credit for it. He loved Sherlock, as friend, as an elder brother. He knew he should not look to the man, as though he was his saviour, but he hated to think what his life would have been like had he not run into Stamford that day.

That day, nearly a lifetime now, he remembered Molly bringing coffee to Captain Holmes. It was an odd thing. He seem to strum her as though a guitar, putting it back down again as though it could never be as good enough as the Strad. An absent minded thing, as Sherlock would probably play the guitar quite well given his musical talent. Except, because he probably only ever had those particular string and bow type lessons in his life, the guitar may never have been introduced as an option.

John needed to make the guitar a more appealing instrument.

She stood there, taking in his comments about her lipstick having been removed and her lips looking too small. She was besotted with him. He knew her hesitation was really due to nerves around the great man. Not to mention, that she was probably on edge every time he was around simply because she never knew what remark Sherlock would throw away next.

Sherlock was a deep well. If anything, where people he truly cared for or took interest in mattered, he was nothing if not subtle of his own feelings. His own experience with his psychosomatic limp was as excellent an example as any of Sherlock's subtlety. Perhaps regarding Molly in any other way would compromise something for him. Perhaps where Molly was concerned, it would compromise his independence.

The only other time Sherlock became truly defensive, as far as he could recall, was one occasion involving Mrs. Hudson being under threat.

He knew the cunning of his friend. Sherlock never gave the game away even in his explanations, there would always be something else going on behind the scenes, in that mind of his, the wheels were always turning. He was never without feeling, despite appearing that way. An air of strength and façade of control, like every military captain he knew, cool under every pressure. Sherlock only became rattled when he could not think fast enough to process the puzzle in front of him, which by most laypersons speeds, was fast enough.

Sherlock was the most lateral thinking, simultaneously decrypting and deciphering, all the while logically determining, every situation at once, person he knew. Being a genius could not be easy. Needing people around him to realise that, was a necessity.

He felt much the same way, on a different level. He needed the company and the action, he needed people to realise that his life in the war, and what happened there, was something he did not need want to delve into. He just wanted to be. Like Sherlock, just wanted to 'be'.

Sherlock allowed John a new life and different sort of space.

As he stood there now in the mortuary, watching Sherlock stare intently into Molly's eyes before heading over to the body, he realised something about his friend. Sherlock kept Molly at a distance for a reason. She was his secret. His amusing little secret. Without her, he would have no peace of mind.

It possibly explained a few things. His heightened behaviour every time they were headed to lab or the morgue. Or when he would fix up his coat and scarf so that he was presentable, or even just then, running out the cab with speed and pit-stopping at the vending machine for snacks. Suddenly, as though a switch had been flicked on in his mind, it seemed as though Sherlock's actions were not only that of a madman on a hunt for answers with regards a new case, but they were in fact subtle behavioural changes related to the promise of seeing his lovely pathologist.

As his second-mate, was he only now, aware of this?

He did not know why he was referring to himself as his second-mate, but after all this talk of buried treasure that evening together with his earlier thoughts of Captain Sherlock and a vague memory of Mycroft speaking of Sherlock's childhood desire to be a pirate when he grew up, things felt more like they were in a crazy pirate adventure at the moment than usual, and as such, he felt very much like the second-mate.

Thinking of it, Sherlock often appeared more like a boundary pushing pirate half the time than a consulting-detective. He certainly had more mystery and romanticism about him, than your average DI. The deer-stalker suddenly seemed less apt as an icon of his, than a bandana. There were times, when he could swear, the glint in his eyes, seemed cheekier and daring, much like a swashbuckler.

Standing in the room now, brought back by the words Sherlock uttered next, he could see something shift in the room between Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock seemed calmer, yet still excited.

'See, here,' he said, encouraging Molly to take a look. 'Right..there.'

Sherlock was pointing to what could be described as an interlocking V, marked with a star and a key, tattooed nearly two by two centimetres, just under the left shoulder blade of Mr. Earl.

Molly studiously peered at the marking. Questions appeared to cross her features, but were interrupted by Sherlock.

'Exactly,' he simply said. 'They were not there before were they? This is the first time you are seeing these marks.'

Walking over to the two of them, and also peering down at the tattoo that Sherlock was referring to, the question begged to be asked.

'How did it get there then?' he asked him. Molly looked from the tattoo, to John, back to Sherlock waiting.

Sherlock's response was the only one he ever gave.

That famous smile which looked like the cat that had caught the canary.


End file.
